


Miners and Martyrs

by RadioCybertron



Category: Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Body mutilation, Empurata, Genital Mutilation, Gore, Humiliation, It's not going to be a light ride, M/M, Mutilation, Non-Consensual Body Modification, Other, Other tags to be added as this goes, Verbal Humiliation, and it does get better, but it's going to be an interesting one, eventually
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-20
Updated: 2017-11-17
Packaged: 2018-08-16 09:22:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 9
Words: 13,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8096629
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RadioCybertron/pseuds/RadioCybertron
Summary: Prowl gets a present that he didn’t expect, with implications that he could have never dreamed of. D-16 finds himself in a whole new world, literally. The world is a dark place, full of shadows and shades that the brightest of enforcers could never dream of or imagine. Despite all of this, hope is found in the oddest of places.And in the oddest of people.





	1. Unexpected Gifts

**Author's Note:**

  * For [larry (larbestaaargh)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/larbestaaargh/gifts).



_Oh let us_ **dream**  
of **electric sheep**  
and **binary** streams.  
Of **wandering bits**  
and **wavering bytes**.  
and the **demons**  
that **lie** in **between.  
**   
-Codex Lies

* * *

As practical jokes go, he has to admit this is possibly the most elaborate he’s ever had the audacity to be the victim of. They’ve left the damn thing bundled up in the middle of his office, with black and white tape that cris-crosses the stained plating. The red bow is laughable, mirrored by the blank stare of a single optic that looks into his with what could be called confusion. Edged digits, too crude to be called servos, flex and twitch with lines of corrupted code. 

He can’t help the deep, irritated sigh that blows out his vents. Hightower has been threatening for ages to conspire with Tumbler to get him a drone if he didn’t at least come out of his office long enough to  _socialize_. The problem is, the drunken debauchery that they consider “get-togethers” leaves him nothing with a glitched processor and a grudging promise to himself to never do that again.

Well, they lived up to their promise- and a drone,  _a mining drone_ \- now sits like a lump. He’s not entirely sure how he feels about the thing, the way it twitches and shifts- and the way the single focusing optic swivels to follow him in the field of black. D-16 can barely be seen through scruffed paint and gouged armor- looking more like a prisoner of war, than what he is. It’s embarrassing.

The least they could have done was picked _a pleasure drone_ out for him.

The thing’s frame is dented and dinged, old scars of past abuses and hard labor marring valleys and canyons into what might have been silver once upon a time, but has dulled into a uniform grey. Half-gone call glyphs with a numerical signifier on his chestplate give him the other’s Ident-code.

He traces it with fingers, and frowns at the odd shiver from the drone. An environmental glitch, he surmises- even as he finds the note from his coworker. 

 

> _//Couldn’t find anything warmer than a drone, but figured we’d get you something a bit hardier than the usual pleasure models. Let’s face it, even they’d deactivate in the face of your usual demeanor. Have fun! And don’t forget to clean it when done.//  
>    
>  -Hightower_

He rolls his optics at that, resetting them with a faint click as he regards the kneeling beast in front of him. Wide and broad, he’s at least a model he can stand with a narrow waist and thick legs. If it wasn’t for the blankness of the optic and the obviousness of the programming- he’d almost think it lived. Of course, he was immune to such personification.

Illogical.

A drone is a drone, and nothing more or less- just as he’s a mech forged with the finest analytical processor that has ever been seen. _No ego_ , merely _fact._

His choices are limited, however- with the beast in his office. Either he admits that he needs the thing and takes it back to his tower, or he simply calls one of the resale auctioneers to see what sort of price he could get for it.

To be quite honest, given the condition and obvious lack of processing power- it might be a cheaper option just to keep it. The wide sensor panels behind him flick in irritation, their rough edges expanding to gather data. The great helm turns slightly to watch him, movement catching its attention before turning back to face him.

“I’m assuming you can understand verbal orders,” he intones, trying to stow his annoyance away. He gestures for the beast to get up, grumbling as it takes time on faulty hydraulics to come to its full height…

…of nearly a helm and a half taller than him.

Of course, because no humiliation is _complete_ without making a statement about him being the _shortest enforcer_ in the department.

“Follow behind me. If you wander out into the street, I’m going to leave you there.” He snarls, the pent-up irritation finally bleeding through the bland tone. The Praxian neatly turns on his pede, storming out of the office with the expectation of being followed. A flinch of plating twitches the silvered armor as it eases up, missed and disregarded by the silent office.

It is a silent duo that makes their way out onto the street and into the brightly lit Praxian night. 


	2. Future's so Bright

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prowl tries to figure out what to do with himself, and his newest acquisition. D-16 is just trying to figure everything else out, but the world is big. The world is scary, and his has narrowed.

_Follow the_ **stars**  
 **they** told me **so.**  
but they never **said.**  
how **far** to **go**.  
So I followed **them**  
to the **end of the line.**  
and the **dreams** i **found**.  
 **They weren’t mine** **.  
  
** _-Codex Lies 2_

* * *

 

He has never seen so much _light_.

The tunnels were pitch black at the lowest point, and even in the upper levels- light was scarce, a commodity. There were times not even headlamps could penetrate the solid darkness, creating a suffocating feeling to some.

Familiar, and comforting- something he remembers in the fragmented _Before_.

The mech he follows is small, almost comically so. Pristine white and black plating with a gloss that he didn’t know even existed. He wants to reach out and touch, but he’s learned early on that to _touch_ means _pain_ and _pain_ means _avoidance_.  Still, as he watches the door panels swing back and forth in light movements with the mech’s steps there is that _need_ to touch.

He doesn’t understand why, only that it is there- but he does not act on it.

His large bulk pauses when the other pauses, and continues when he does- only almost losing him once in a press of pedestrian traffic. Plating lifts and flares with distress, but in the whirling bright lights and assault of noise- he is on his own. It’s only when the monochrome mech turns a corner that he spots him and quickens his pace to catch up.

This place is alien, and frightening. It is another world, full of vibrance and color- with mechs full of laughing faces and bright glosses. He doesn’t understand it and he feels out of place. There is nothing familiar here. There is nothing dull, or dark- no overseers or brothers like him.

There is no one but himself- and this odd little mech with a feel of irritation.

D-12 had felt like this sometimes, but he also had recharge fluxes that made him scream in binary. Another one of his mining brothers,he had not lasted long. The Overseers in their gold armor and gold badges came for him, like mist and poison. They had left nothing behind, not even the ghost of his memory remains.

Save for the one in his helm.

And these days, that’s faultier than it used to be.

The shorter mech leads him towards the outskirts of the glowing city with its crystal spires. His own plating begins to relax and lay down back against his protoform as familiar darkness and silence begins to creep into the vibrant nightlife behind them. There’s a substantial amount of light still around, and it hurts his optic but he does not complain.

Instead, he’s merely gazing around with curiosity as the other mech fights with his security code.

And suddenly, they’re inside.

He’s never seen a place so _clean_.

He wanders around behind his guide, pausing to listen when the other speaks. He can’t quite understand half of what he’s saying, but he does understand the basic directions.

_Walk here, step there, don’t touch that and don’t get lost._

Maybe if he’s lucky, the mech will let him _stay_ here. Even his brothers in the mine sometimes talked about being replaced, and maybe put somewhere better. He wonders if this is the better they talk about. If it is, then surely the work will not be as hard as lifting the shards of energon and the piles of slag. A faint binary beep of approval whirrs out of his vocalizer as he pauses. The mech has turned, and is looking at him! A stern face, yes- but he can see rounded edges in the sharp plains.

He does not know the proper word, but he knows that the other’s lines are pleasing and that the light from the dimmed corner sconces make his plating almost _glow_. The blacks are _almost pitch_ here, reminding him of the corners and crannies in his tunnels from Before. That is enough to make his plating flinch and relax. If he concentrates on the black, then he doesn’t have to see the glaring whiteness that burns his optic.

The moment lingers and he continues to watch, uncertain as what to do next. His plating flares again as the mech comes forward, this time raising as those white fingers reach out to touch. He wants to be touched, he wants the contact. He doesn’t know why, or how- but there’s something about it that’s a visceral pull in the bottom of his tanks.

The soft sound escapes him before he can quell it, a short burst of pained static.

He watches in muted sorrow as the hand retracts the face closing back from the curiosity that had briefly taken over.  Instead, he is treated to the other jacking in a scanner to run over… system requirements? He watches as readouts scroll across his HUD too fast for him to understand, his helm swiveling right and left as he tries to make sense of them.

What has he done wrong?

The jack is brusquely twisted out, and he fights the flinch this time- helm swiveling to follow the other’s path. The shorter mech makes his way into what he guesses is some sort of preparation area, and returns with a container of fuel.  

“Do you have any i-…why am I asking you?”

The words hurt, though he can’t explain why.

Or why the other is suddenly hunting around all over his frame like one of the flightless crunchbugs that live in the mines. His plating lifts and flares as it’s touched, lowering when the hand passes over- until he supposes the other finds what he’s looking for.

“Couldn’t make it easy,” comes the muttering, “Had to put your fuel intake on the complete other side of your lateral intakes.”

This close, he can see the faint stress lines on the other’s durametal faceplates. Almond shaped optics with a wide, bright focusing ring. The minuet mechanisms that make the magnification possible are seamless and precise. It reminds him of the gems they sometimes find, tossed away into another bin for different use.

The word comes to him, on the tip of a thought filled with uneasiness and confusion.

_Beautiful._

It is gone, lingering and lost like smoke and leaves him bereft. He dips his helm as the other finishes his task, retracting the funnel for the intake without being asked. He does not know where to plug in, where to recharge or rest. He knows that that has to happen sometimes, but at least right now he has fuel.

His helm comes up again at the curt words, intent on the voice underneath.

“When you finish processing the fuel, there is a corner to your right. Plug yourself in and power down for the night.”

He watches him exit, the door to his suite shutting behind and leaving him in the darkened room alone. There is still so much he doesn’t understand, so much he doesn’t know. His HUD is still up, and at the right hand corner he can see data scrolling past. System variations, maintenance reports and various other info-tels all crowd down, scrolling slower this time.  

**_||transferal: y/n||_ **

**_||Y||_ **

**_||Calibration:Complete| Files ||_ **

**_|| oOo|Ownership | Transferal: processing…||_ **

**_||Files:Transferred||_ **

**_||Owner:Updated||_ **

**_||Query:Owner:Query:Answer:….processing||_ **

He tilts his helm at the words, uncertain as to their meaning- but knowing that from now on things have changed. He finishes processing, and eases up with a soft hiss of binary as his joints try to lock up. He shuffles over to his spot, and fumbles for a moment until he finds the correct plugs to line in with the sockets.

Tonight has been terrifying, more than a little strange and confusing.

He does not have any grand hopes about tomorrow, but at least he will not be facing it _alone_.

There is something in that, at least.


	3. Don't Stand so Close to Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> D-16 attempts to keep his place, while Prowl wants to scratch an itch. Instead, they both find a rather ugly wound.

_How **deep** this **goes**_   
_a **hole** in the **sand**_   
_water pouring in_   
_unstopped by **hand**_   
_a sieve of **heart**_   
_and skin of **stone**_   
_the **more we grasp**_   
****_yet we remain alone._  
  
Codex Lies IV 

* * *

 

 

 

Routine establishes itself.

For the most part, the slimmer mech seems to forget his presence. It leaves him uncomfortable with a lack of things to do. It’s only when he’s presented with a list one morning that he feels an overwhelming warmth race down his circuitry at the glyphs. A list of chores means he’s not going to be decommissioned. It means he’s going to _stay._

Every task is scrutinized intently, watched from as many angles as he dares in order to get it right. When the other leaves, he repeats and repeats and repeats until every movement is perfection. Until he knows there are no flaws in his movements, no chances for hesitation. No hitches or cause for dismissal. This is possibly the cleanest and best place he’s ever had to stay, and he does not want to lose it.

Routine establishes itself, and he _thrives_.

He avoids the day cycle, preferring to recharge and turn off his optic so he does not have to see the glaring light of the star above. It halos his vision, making it hurt with refractive hallucinations he doesn’t understand.

With words he doesn’t have a name for yet, a mouth that cannot utter.

He dreams.

Programming limits his movement and his reactions. Abortive lines of code stunt his flinches and twitches, making them into smaller non-offensive movements. He cannot flail, he cannot scream. Electric sheep turn into binary dragons, and demons with no faces and no voices scream at him from the void.

They are not good dreams.

He fixates on the solitary _beautiful_ thing in his focus, his _master_.

While the word does not have a solid definition, he has heard others use it. It makes him feel as if he’s seen crystal for the first time in reflective light. A million different facets, a million different reflections- all within a single cut- and still there are more to discover. His master is beautiful, but there is something dissonant about him.

Like crystal, fractures are often hidden and run deep.

He orbits, tracing the other’s steps at the end of day when he arrives. A glass carefully placed by his servos, filled with his fuel. His datapads are meticulously put in the stacks on the other side.  He circles and he shifts, watching and waiting with lines of odd fire that prick at his frame when the other stretches _just so_. He doesn’t understand the way the world is anymore, or if there is a world outside anymore.

He merely understands that _his_ world is small, and his _world_ is _here_.

And so, he serves.

* * *

Smelt him into the smelter, and make him melt.

He is an Enforcer, held to the plinth of justice and honor. He has taken vows to be not only a defender of those in need, but a role model to citizens that are in dire need of it. There are no thoughts in his processor that deviates from what would be considered from the social norm. There is nothing to hint at any sort of _deviation_.

And yet, here he sits- contemplating something that should get him sent to a possible psych eval. All over a rather tasteless joke, and an even more tasteless gift; who at the moment is turning out to be a rather interesting blessing in disguise. For a rather dilapidated hunk of useless mining equipment- the learning process is remarkably quick. Chores are done quickly, and efficiently. The drone stays out of his way, while being in the near proximity if needed. His data pads are arranged, his fuel is brought.

In fact, he’s far more attentive than most lovers he’s had in the past.

That shameful realization has now brought him to this moment, and he wonders just how desperate he must be to even consider it. The drone is merely that, nothing more than a lower functioning baseline processor with a frame to go with it.

Yet.

Yet, those wide bladed servos are gentle when they groom and the “field” that the drone generates is a surprisingly contented one- as if he were happy to be in _his_ presence.

Ice blue optics narrow as they continue to watch the drone go about its business.  A faint exhale of irritation escapes flared vents as he allows himself to sit down, and sink deeper into this consideration. It wouldn’t be much of an issue, if there wasn’t the matter of his excess charge. His tac-net requires so much energy that his frame must produce an excess of it.

The result is that while it results in higher computing power, it also results in a constant buzz of a charge that rattles through his frame. He can, for the most part, reroute it to other areas- but there are times when nothing less than either interface or a particularly robust round of self-servicing will suffice.

Option two is out.

And he cannot believe he is seriously considering the drone for option one.

However, here he sits- idly wondering if the drone has a spike proportional to his frame. Primus must be _laughing_ , but there is nothing to it. It’s his home, his land and his property. What happens in this shameful instance will stay here.

It’s not like a drone can talk, after all.

“D-16, come here.”

The eager shuffle over is almost amusing. One orbital ridge quirks upwards as he watches the automaton ease over, bladed servos interlacing in front of the narrow waist as the single optic tilts down at him expectantly. Battered, silver plating flares out welcomingly, and his own field relaxes in response.

His mouth opens, and then closes as the words he wants to speak don’t come forth. This is no mech before him, merely a mech-shaped thing that obeys commands, but still- he cannot find the words necessary to ask about his equipment. An unfamiliar flush flames across his faceplates as he clears his vocalizer in order to get himself in order.

“D-16, display yourself. Err. Please. Interfacial equipment, preferably.”

There’s a faint shift of confusion from the drone, but ports begin to slide open along his side and chest. To his horror, the drone shifts- and gets into position against the wall, both servos splay out with his helm down. He winces internally as they are bared. Rust and corrosion flake onto his clean floor, showing stripped sockets and soiled divots. The panels retract.

What’s behind the panel is worse, so much worse.

The drone’s frame must have originally belonged to a mech, before being scrapped to the salvage yard. The dock for the spike is a mangled mess, full of wires and twisted, scarred protoform. Despite this, he can see the tip of a spike- it’s head pierced with a bar that prohibits it from extending.  At some point, it must have become so swollen and infected, that the metal around it had warped and burst- leaving a disgusting mass of scarring.

The valve has been welded shut, except for the smallest opening towards the back. The anterior node is gone, and the rest is an ugly, scarred mess that turns his tanks.  He staggers back, and waves at the drone- all remnants of his own charge now gone.

“Close up and stand.”

The orders are done silently and efficiently. Panels close, and the ports slide shut with a soft grating sound. Pede steps shuffle back over to him, and that crimson optic- ever watchful, roves over him as it awaits orders.

Disgust and shame fights for space in his frame. He can’t believe he’d even considered lowering himself to consort with the drone. He can’t believe he’d been desperate enough to consider it in the first place. And yet… the other half of him wonders just what happened to warrant such destruction and hatred towards a frame.  He frowns quietly as he regards that ever observant optic, and the slight sway to the frame that houses it. It might be best he consult a medic, just in case there are other nasty surprises waiting on him.

It wouldn’t do to wake up and have the thing deactivate because of a virus he couldn’t find or internal corrosion from that… mutilation.

A quick message is sent halfway across the city-state to a personal friend, and long-time confidante. It may take the other mech an orn or two to get back with him, but he’s confident that what Ratchet will find is more than worth the wait.

For now, however- he regards the large frame once more and in the silence of the darkened suite, it regards him back.

And for a moment, he almost swears he can see a twitch of fear.

Of course, that’s impossible.

It’s just a _drone_.


	4. Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prowl decides to enlist some help with his current issue, and D-16 has some issues of his own.

_There is **such**_  
_a wide **world**  _  
_to **see**_  
_but I'm **afraid.**_  
_that it's_  
_left **nothing**_  
_of **me**_  
  
_Codex III_

* * *

He is _unhappy._

Those are the first thoughts that flit through his processor as he goes about his list. His chores are complete meticulously and on time, but still there is something lacking. He shakes as he walks, pacing back and forth in the spacious living quarters of his new domicile. His master left for the day earlier than normal in the dawn and it is past time that he should have returned.

He worries.

In the light, there are so many dangers.  He does not want to lose the master he’s only so recently gained. The brightness blinds and the heat hurts. The fleeting image of the other, _suffering_ on some blinded pavement, full of _white pain_ and _searing agony_ makes him whine softly. It’s almost negligible, a binary hum full of midi-filed pitches.

He has disappointed his _master_.

Bladed servos dig emptily at the air as he continues to pace back and forth, staring at the walls. The Overseers will come. They come for the _disappointments,_ the _broken_ and _crying_. They take away the ones that _fritz_ and the ones that _glitch._ They take them Away, to the _Other_ place.

Nobody has ever returned from the _Other_ place.

The orn trickles by, tick after tick in slow crawls on the digital chronometer that displays against the wall in holographic glory. He counts it down, claws digging at the air with the seconds.  He has done everything on the List. He has done everything perfect.

Why does the master not come?

He shuffles to the corner of the room that temporarily has been given to him, tired and worn struts shaking as faulty hydraulics lower him down. Dreams scream at him from the back of his processor, worn things scattered about like a broken puzzle. The single red optic dims and then shuts off as that great helm lowers into the thick lower arms. The bladed servos rest against the crest, tapping in anxious rhythms.  Words he does not understand slide across his HUD like streaks of static in a broken monitor. 

Routine is _broken_ , and so is he.

All he can do is _wait._

And so.

He does.  


* * *

 

 

He, however, is running late for several reasons- none of which are his fault. First off, Hightower just had to get in trouble for accidentally crossing into another precinct without permission. Secondly, there was an accident on the floating multi-level crossing that resulted in several frames being sent to Praximum Prime’s general medical facility. At the moment, however- he is currently awaiting the arrival of someone that he’d hesitantly call a friend.

And that’s only because Ratchet does not take no for an answer.

His helm comes up at the sudden flurry of attention outside of his office door, noting several other enforcers moving past to go greet someone. His helm tilts to one side as the pass-code to his office is entered and the door slides back to admit not the medic, but someone else.

The focusing ring within his optics expands infinitesimally as he stands to greet the newcomer.

“Senator Shockwave,” he murmurs deferentially, his helm tipping down while his sensor panels tip up in respect.

The brightly colored mech merely smiles- offering him a hand from across the desk.

“Enforcer Captain Prowl, a pleasure in most circumstances- though today, I’m certain it’s not from the message.”

He resets his optics once as he shakes the offered servo, then eases down into his own padded chair as he offers the one across from his own.

“I had thought that my message had gotten to its intended source.”

Blue optics lid just a little, and the smile that Shockwave normally keeps on his lips begins to falter a touch. One hand comes up to rub just below the helm crest above his nasal ridge.

“It was received, but Ratchet’s… not in a good place today. It was decided that I would come in his stead, if… you are amenable to that?” He glances up at him, leaving the question hanging for permission to continue.

Prowl frowns at that, but inwardly flinches. Ratchet’s condition is not unknown to his closest and inner circle. A confidante of the current Prime, and an advisor- he had wound up on the list of several individuals whose best interests had included him _gone_. It had only been through Prime’s interference, his own deduction skills and Shockwave’s considerable pull and credits that they had found Ratchet before the worst had happened.

Though what had transpired had been bad enough.

“Of course I am,” he acquiesces, a soft sigh escaping his vents. “Is… someone watching him?”

The senator nods, leaning back a little more fully into the chair. He’s relaxed, as if they were discussing fuel intake for the regulatory practices within Tarn, his home city state.

“Ironhide is, as well as a pair of bodyguards he’s picked up from Kaon.”

He can’t help the faint moue of distaste that crosses his faceplates at the mention of the failed citystate and its legion of criminality. The senator for Kaon had been murdered half a vorn ago, and no amount of policing from outside forces has managed to get it under control. Sources from within tell him that it’s currently being run by a crime boss.

But no one has a designation, yet.

He’s still waiting, and his source is exceptional.

He’ll find out, eventually.

“Oh come now,” Shockwave chuckles at him, “They truly are not that bad, and they do take orders well. They seem to have taken to watching over Ratchet as if he were their own creator… which is what we were wanting. Not everything … or everyone from Kaon is corrupted.”

He shifts, pushing up to a stand and readjusts his plating.

“Some of them just need a servo, that’s all.”

He merely shakes his head at the Senator’s optimism. Someday, it’s going to get the mech in trouble. It’s refreshing to see, despite its tendency to be annoying. He eases up as well, beginning to shut down both his computer and his communication systems, locking his personal data and office up for the day. They exit the office shoulder-strut to shoulder-strut and Prowl can’t help the faint half smirk that curls his lips upwards at Hightower’s faint jaw drop at the two of them. Good, maybe it’ll keep the nosey fragger out of his personal life for a while.

He half listens as Shockwave prattles on amiably about safe subjects from his day-to-day business. They make their way towards the transport, a private affair- and much more costly than what he can afford on his own. Though it IS nice to occasionally indulge with someone else’s offer. Once seated, the subject turns to other matters much more serious that Shockwave needs legal consul on.

In this area, he excels.

He’s almost relaxed as he finally comes to the reason for the request halfway to the landing pad that tops his tower. A faintly irritated sigh escapes him as he explains about the “present” and its condition. Given Shockwave’s educational background, he does not spare details and gives what image captures he dares. He waits silently for the condemnation he knows will follow in the other’s optics.

Except that, it doesn’t come.

Shockwave looks more horrified than disgusted, a faint lightening of his chromatic nanites on his plating making him look washed out and pale.

“And you’re certain that was the condition he was bought in,” he questions as the transport sets down.

The enforcer nods as he deftly unbuckles himself, and gestures for the taller mech to follow.

“I … had an _issue_ that needed to be addressed, and while I was perusing on how to do so- I asked it to bare it’s… hardware.” He gestures with quick movements as they make their way in, spiraling towards the lift that will take them down to the living level.

“Is your tac-net still giving you trouble?”

“It’s more the _excess_ charge than anything,” he replies- shrugging once as he presses in the correct code.

They step into silence as the doors open. Prowl frowns, knowing he left commands within the central AI for the lights to come on at a certain time. The rooms are cleaned, per the List. The energon sits out, waiting for him- though at this point, due to his unfortunate lateness- it has curdled. His datapads are waiting in their usual spot.

The drone is _not_.

He frowns a bit more, coming to stop in the middle of the room as he swivels his helm left and right. The rigid panels at his back raise and quiver in the dimness as they too try to get a sense of where the other has gone. Shockwave steps up behind him, and murmurs about checking the other rooms. He nods, gesturing for him to take the right corridors.

He goes left.

 

* * *

 

They are _coming_.

A metallic buzz from above, signifying the coming of the Others. The Seers in their Golden plating and their Golden badges with their soft words. They come with sticks that buzz and collars that hurt. They come in the Light. They come with a brightness that hurts the optic, that makes the field snap, and crackle and go from plating piece to plating piece as it crawls under and over your protoform into your processor.

_It doesn’t stop, it doesn’t stop it doesn’t stop it doesn’t stop it doesn’t stop…_

His vents heave air as he pushes up from his corner, making his way blindly down corridors. He’s never been in half of these rooms, only the ones that he was told to stay in. Now, he crashes through in confusion. He does not want to go back, he cannot go back.

He does not want to go to the _Other_ place.

He wants to stay _here_.

_He’s sorry._

_Please let him stay_.

He finds a place that is different from the other rooms. It’s small and it’s dark and there is no light. Air swirls in soft currents here and his plating lift in familiarity. He squeezes in, ducking his helm against his knee joints and placing his servos over the back of his neck. This is comforting. This is home. This is where he belongs. He does not belong in the Light. He does not belong out There.

This is where he needs to be.

His tanks rebel against him, causing the energon he’d managed to intake to slosh against sides. It cannot escape without an oral out. Instead, the heat from his frame causes it to curdle. Warnings pop up on his HUD in words that he doesn’t understand, but with percentages that he does. He knows that he’s low on fuel and that his toxicity levels are high. That his frame is heating up beyond what would be considered safe parameters.

He does not care.

He does not want to go. He wants to stay.

It does not take long for the reports to scroll faster and in greater frequencies before he sees a final warning.

**_::Stasis Lock: Eminent::_ **

Please.

Let him _stay_.

**_::Stasis Lock: Initiated::_ **

**_::Shutdown::_ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Larry, who continues to inspire and talk to me. Who reminds me that I can write. Who flails and cheers me on. For Shibara, who talks and chatters at me, who talks to me and reminds me that there are wonderful people out in the world. For Dracoqueen22, who became one of my best friends- who always cheers me on, and listens on the days that are rough. Who acts as my sounding board, and tosses ideas back and forth with me. They're half the reason this thing exists. 
> 
> For HanaNoir- who is always with me, no matter what. <3
> 
> I intend to see this one through guys. Thank you. 
> 
> To everyone else reading this. Thank you so much for your reviews, your words and your kindness. Even if it's just a Kudo, or a pass on to a friend. Reviews and kudos are worth more than gold, and I'm so very thankful. Thank you so much!


	5. Stand by Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prowl has to deal with a drone he can't use at the moment, and Shockwave has his own problems to deal with. At least, though, he has help.

_I have forgotten_  
_the taste of your lips_  
 _the touch of your skin._  
 _and the way_  
 _you screamed my name._  
  
_Ain’t that a shame._

_**Little Lies v1.** _

* * *

 

 

Reality hits home as he stares at the prone form stretched out on the guest berth.  The drone is big, bigger than he seems- hunched over and curled when he stands. Thick tensor cables in between even thicker plating. The struts that become visible as Shockwave continues his impromptu surgery are reinforced, made to withstand incredible pressure.

He’s fairly certain the thing could withstand the force of a complete mine collapse, but apparently- curdled energon downs even the most stalwart of systems.

He tries not to grimace as the clotted lumps find their way out, siphoned into a waste container specifically for this purpose. He knows it’s not the energon grade that’s caused this, considering his own is the purest he can afford. His optics narrow as the surgery progresses, watching as Shockwave moves carefully from one system to the next.

“Any idea of what caused it to collapse,” he ventures the question during one of the lulls in between Shockwave’s explorative sessions, pausing to watch him solder another system back together. The heat had been enough to apparently melt several vital wires to slag.

“A high stress reaction,” murmurs the scientist, brushing a comforting hand over the thing’s helm.  “Some mechanisms respond as such to incidents with stress and anxiety. They cannot handle it, and it builds up and builds up and builds up. He had no way to purge it, so it curdled in his tank and the toxicity made him ill.”

He snorts in faint amusement, moving out of the way as the senator moves to the other side of the table to begin finalizing his repairs.

The drone, offline and motionless between them- lies there, a lump filled with secrets and injuries. Despite the irritation, he is loath to get rid of him or attempt to trade and upgrade him for a better model.

“Do you think you’ll be able to repair it?”

Blue optics squint slightly in concentration at his question as those long-fingered servos pause over the broad expanse of the drone’s chest plating. Fingertips find seams, rubbing comfortingly in an unconscious gesture.

“I think,” he begins- pausing with a deep breath that makes his vents open fully. “That I have a lot of work cut out before me. There is a lot of damage here.”

His servo raises, then lowers as his helm suddenly tilts to one side. An expression of tight concern washes over his face- and the enforcer finds himself at the other end of a rather apologetic expression. Shockwave begins to put his tools away, replacing armor sections as he goes- and sealing up sutures.

“I apologize for such a hasty departure,” he explains as deft servos seal another seam. “But I’ve just been informed that I am needed at the manor.”

He doesn’t have to explain why, and he steps back to let him finish. He grabs the cleaning cloth that is left behind as Shockwave brisks out once he’s done, already half distracted with the internal comm-call he fielding. Pale blue optics watch him go, and then towards the transport on the roof. The ceiling trembles briefly as it takes off with its cargo…

…leaving him alone with his burden once more.  
  
He finds himself sitting down on the berth, sensor panels sweeping out wide as the drone’s field hums against his own. The cleaning cloth dangles limply between fingers as he finds himself staring blankly at a wall. Shockwave is always a whirlwind of emotions when he arrives, and it usually tires him out. Today, however- he is left alone with something that feels like anxiety.

The drone isn’t going to move for a while, and the berth is wider than his own. A good nap won’t go amiss, and who is going to spread lies about him needing a berth partner.

Even if that partner doesn’t exist beyond the construct of his own processor.

His helm tilts to one side as he exhales, shoulder-struts slumping as he turns to lay on his side and stare over at the off-line automaton. Shockwave had kept personifying the thing, calling it a “he.” He wonders if it appreciates the attempt, if it even understands. The more practical part of his processor scoffs at this, berating him for such flights of fancy as he settles down and allows himself to begin the drift into recharge.

A drone is a _drone_.

Nothing _more_.

Or _less._

 

* * *

 

 

It feels like an age before the transport finally arrives. The red glossy plating of his Kaonite acquisition greets him at the pad as the door opens. Black servos offer him a hand out, and he takes it gratefully. Even as sturdy as he is, the wind from the downdraft of the transport is still enough to buffet him.

“Where is Sunstreaker?”

Sideswipe’s face pulls into a concerned mask, dark violet optics squinting as they make their way across the rooftop towards the entrance. They’re of a height, so it’s easy to match strides and gait. He glances over at the former con-mech and gladiator.

“Sunny’s with Ratch right now. He had one of his bad spells, wouldn’t come out. Sunny’s been trying to talk to him.”

He nods at this as they step through the double doors and into the lift. Sideswipe enters his own code and the lift begins to descend into the depths of the tower. The red-plated twin is worried, with his field faintly vibrating with concern. He is glad that the other is worried about his partner, glad that someone besides himself cares for the old medic.

Glad that another two sets of optics are there to help keep watch over him.

He pauses as he comes to the closed door, nodding to the golden twin who steps back to allow him room. His servos brush over both of them comfortingly, smiling to himself as they lean into the touch. He told Prowl that he had come into acquisition of them, but he did not tell the Enforcer how long it took to earn their _trust_.

That trust is more _precious_ to him than all the shanix in his account.

“He’s not made a sound for over a joor, Shockwave.”  Sunstreaker’s voice is a surprisingly smooth purr, rumbling in the back of his vocalizer and against his audial.

He nods, already pressing in the code to the room- and waiting for the door to slide open.

For once, the room is not torn up. The metalmesh covers on the berth are still there, and the various bits of artwork on tables and walls remain. In fact, he’d almost venture to guess that Ratchet wasn’t _here_ , if it wasn’t for the harsh venting coming from the wash racks and the worried glances from the twins behind him.

He enters carefully, crouching down beside the red and white medic. Furrows made into medical grade plating make him inwardly flinch as he reaches out to touch the clenched servos. Ratchet’s helm is ducked down between his knee joints, vents blowing out harsh gusts of air in ragged breaths.

“Ratchet, are you there?”

It seems an inane question, but it’s necessary.

 He startles slightly as the frame suddenly moves, and he finds himself with an armful of mechanism. Garbled words and half formed glyphs in stuttered words and truncated communiques hitch into audials and into his queue. His face tightens as he pulls the other closer, nodding to Sunstreaker and Sideswipe as the move around him to brace Ratchet from the other side. Fields press in from all angles, surrounding the darkness that lingers like twilight.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m s-sorr-,” comes the apology in between hitched breaths and stuttered words.

It’s the same thing every time, and it makes his spark want to burn and shatter at the same instance.

He touches the servos that grab onto him, touching over old weld scars and the sore ones that linger at the base of the wrists. He rocks him, bringing him against his frame as he begins the mantra of reassurance. His fingers flick towards the twins, gesturing for them to follow- inviting them into the ritual. Their sparks spin with the same orbit, the same resonance and the same output. They are a force of nature in two frames, and exactly what he needs to help bolster the fractured thing in his arms.

“We got ya, Ratchet,” comes the quiet, thick reply from the red twin. His black servos find sensitive seams and spots in the white, pristine armor.

Sunstreaker deigns to remain silent, but his field speaks for him instead; it whorls with worry and concern, impotent anger and a helpless frustration. He moves backwards, pulling Ratchet with him until they can collapse comfortably in the berth together.

Old scars, silvery and bright in the overhead light reflect as they move to stretch out. They’re traced carefully, lovingly by the two mechs that flank his conjunx. His servos reach out to brush their helms briefly in thanks. Ratchet begins to settle at their touch, their proximity and their fields.

It wasn’t always like this.

It’s the yellow twin that finally speaks as Ratchet’s venting finally evens out, as his frame stretches out into the lax posture of actual recharge.

“He was fine, until someone mentioned surgery,” Sunstreaker began, swallowing hard for a moment. “He was fine after, but his servos started spasming. He couldn’t stop them, and then…”

“…and then we guess he had a flashback,” Sideswipe continues. “We don’t know. He just started screaming, tearing at his plating- touching his hands. He was screaming, Shockwave. _“Let me go, don’t touch them!”_

He nods tiredly at this, leaning his helm back against the wall at the head of the berth. His spinestrut bends a little, giving Ratchet’s helm more room in his lap as he strokes the red chevron.

“It’s a long story, mechlets. Essentially, he has a very nasty case of post-traumatic stress disorder- from what Rung can tell me.”

It’s something he’s explained to them before when they were brought here to work. It’s part of their job description, due to his inability to restrain Ratchet during his more violent periods. He loves his conjux, so very much- but, he worries.

He worries that in the end, he may not be able to fix this, or _him_.

He thinks of Prowl, and his drone- optics closing the information from the earlier scans finally finishes decoding on his HUD. He shunts it to a different processing tree, then ordering it to his data-storage to go over later. Right now, in his arms- he has more pressing matters.

He just hopes Prowl won’t do anything rash with his newfound acquisition.   

“You all right, Shockers?”

He smiles faintly at their nickname for him, optics slitting open. When did they close?

“I’m tired, Sideswipe.”

Black servos pull at him, sandwiching him and Ratchet between them. He allows himself to be mech-handled as a warm frame slides up against him from behind, and an arm curls over his waist. Sunstreaker curls up behind Ratchet’s backstrut, his arm curling around the medic’s waist- fingertips lightly brushing.

“Jus’ rest, we got you,” purrs the voice into his audial- the Kaonite accent thickening in the gloom as the lights begin to dim. “We’ll keep a watch over you an’ Ratch.”

He hums to himself as he allows recharge to steal over him- and commends himself on buying out their contracts. Sideswipe and Sunstreaker have turned out to be a diamonds in the rough, and amazing in their own right. He slides into sleep, dreaming of white and red plating, with gold and black interspaced.

It’s the first time his dreams are _good_ in a long while.  


	6. Wake Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which all the pieces are slowly moving together, but the game is still shrouded in shadows. We're given a part to play, but was it really our's to begin with? 
> 
> Or: Starscream gets a present he didn't ask for, and a responsibility he didn't know he had.

 

_I find it hard to tell you,_  
_I find it hard to take_  
_When people run in circles_  
_it's a very very_  
_mad world_  
_mad world_

_-Gary Jules,[ Mad World. ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Oa-ae6_okmg)_

* * *

 

Starscream was no stranger to odd presents. The final heir and chosen leader of Vos as its’ newly appointed Winglord had left little time to socialize, but certainly left him enough room to receive “favors” from all sorts. It was not unconceivable that at some point, in between rude flirtations and half aborted attempts at courting that someone would slip him a living, breathing present. He, however, thought it would be a pet of the mechanimal sort.

Not a fully sapient and sentient mech butchered to look like one.

Of course, the problem was that certain castes and frame types were not considered sentient beyond a certain realm of testing. Those that could not score above a certain (adjusted) percentile were considered labor-class “morons” and appointed as such.  Those that scored below that were either swept out of sight.

Or lived in the tunnels like the turborats they accompanied.

The frame in front of him, tied to its pet bed, is something snarling and feral. He can’t make out colors, as the original chromatic scheme of the other’s frame has long since changed. He can see bare metal, scraped down to the proto-layer, gleam in places with wet injury.  There’s waste in the cage, a faint iridescent sheen over the liquid as it drips to one side and fouls a spot on his table.

Part of him wants to wrinkle his nasal ridge and command one of his guards to get rid of the blighted thing, but something in the flickering optics stops him. There’s exhaustion, yes- he’s not surprised to see that, but there’s something else.

A defiance, despite all of this, that continues to burn like a low mine’s fire.

It makes him grunt, move closer to observe the other’s reaction to his proximity. His answer comes in the way of five broken claws that swipe at him, nearly missing his faceplates. He can see the chain that shortens the other’s reach. It trembles with strain, much like the occupant itself.  Plating flares defensively, making it look bigger than it really is. He leans forward, making it snarl and whine with distress in an effort to scare him away. He knows it’s short on fuel, and running through these defense mechanisms will tire it out.

It takes longer than he expects, however, the thing slumping down to stare at him with baleful optics. He doesn’t want to risk opening the cage and hurting both himself and the creature, but he doesn’t want to leave it in that bastion of filth and infection they’ve put it in either.

Plus, it stinks.

He reaches over with one taloned hand, grabbing the leash provided and then pops the maglock on the cage.  It takes a certain amount of manual dexterity to affix the leash before opening the door.

He supposes he should have expected the sudden rush.

Thankfully, his reflexes are far superior to the others- both from superiority of frame and feeding, but also because he has the freedom of space and maneuverability. He winds the leash quickly around his wrist, tugging upwards harshly to cut off the other’s attack.

He didn’t expect it to cut off its intakes.

The collar, a stasis band, much like those used for criminals- activates with the harsh tug, cutting off both air-flow to the other’s ventilation system and also any sort of electrical reception to cable clusters below. It drops the creature like a metal block, sprawling it out in an ungainly heap. He sighs, readjusting the loop of the leash before beginning to circle his acquisition.

 In the brighter light of the room’s center, it is easier to see things he couldn’t before. There are old whip-bands over the back and thighs and hobbles on the pedes to keep the pet from running. The clawed tips of the servos have been filed down to dull points, and the face- unsurprisingly lean and hungry, turns in minuet increments to watch him back. They didn’t get close enough to file the dentae down, as he can see the sharp points from here when it tries to exhale out of its mouth.

“We’re going to have a bit of an understanding,” he croons, wings hitching forward to deter the other from attempting to attack again. He’s rewarded by a slight flattening of form and plating as the creature attempts to sink down.

“You,” he tugs the leash a little, causing a small jolt to make the other jerk. “Are not going to attempt to attack me again. You are going to listen, and you are going to **behave**.”

Those optics, dim in the darkness, brighten a little as they follow him. He realizes, as he speaks… that the other is not listening to him. He tilts his helm, watching the other tilt with him- and  it comes to him as a jolt that he’s not listening, because he’s _reading his_ _lips_.

He leans back at that, this time taking a very good look at the thing that has become his responsibility. It’s lean of frame, more lines and struts than good protoform and plating. He can see interlocked abdominal plating which allows for a remarkable range of flexibility. The upper pectorium, covered by what at one point might have been a decent bit of plating is flattened- giving it an almost insecticon-sque appearance. The rounded helm is sensitive, and he can see two divots where some sort of auditory sensors may have been.

The optics are the most compelling.

They’re ovoid, with an amazing array of interconnecting lenses that filter in and out of focus as he moves. Their spectrum shifts as he does, and he has to wonder if the thing shifts from light to infrared to ultraviolet to keep track.

The thing that chills him the most, however, is the brand that comes into view along the back of the thing’s supple spinestrut. A careful turn, making his way in a cautious semi-circle makes it twist, half flopping to follow him without having to move much. Three gears, interlocked tooth-in-tooth, and burned all the way to the struts beneath. He reaches out to touch, noting the way it cringes underneath him.

Noting the sudden rattle of its remaining plating, the way the air ripples with the terror in the other’s field.  He traces each brand, counting the teeth and murmuring a name each time before sitting back against the wall with numb horror that creeps towards his own spark.

Three cogs.

Thirteen teeth, one for each member of the council.

Just what has he gotten himself into?

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're gonna be moving back to Prowl and D-16 here soon, but I have a few more pieces that need to come into play before we return back to the main players.


	7. Down we go

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> D16 has a small epiphany and Starscream has a realization of his own.

_Oh how far we go_   
_and with words defend_   
_but how little we know._   
_or when the pain ends_

__**Little Lies Vol 3.**  
  
\-------------------------------------

_Warmth_ is the first thing he notices.

His frame is stretched out on something softer than the corner he usually plugs into. Readouts on his single HUD are all flowing green, and the energon in his tank is gentle.

He can imagine a glow, words disappearing from the forefront of the mouth that doesn’t exist like the vent that escapes from his sides. Bladed servos click softly as he shifts to get more comfortable, to figure out where he is exactly.

To figure out that _ _Master i__ s __beside him.__  

He can’t quite stop the bubble of __something__  that fills him. It’s light and giddy, wanting to wriggle happily- though he doesn’t. Master does not recharge well, and he would do nothing that would break that much-needed rest. The helm with its red chevron rests against his shoulderstrut, and he carefully slides that arm underneath the other’s frame to curl him closer. 

To share warmth.

It was not uncommon in the __Darkness__ , in the _ _Before time__ \- for the __Others__  like himself to huddle and curl.

To conserve energy and light, to touch and remember that they __Were__  and __Are.__  

The free digits on his other servos carefully trace the white and black plating. There’s scuff marks and dings. There’s dull spots and there’s places where metal is almost down to the protoform. Rudimentary operating systems come online to bring up a to-do list, and he makes buffing and polishing the other priority on his list. The large red optic dims slightly as his helm tilts once more, watching the smaller mech stir in his recharge- dim blue optics coming online briefly.

He is stared at for a moment as Master watches him in confusion, before thunking his helm back down onto the warm plating. Soon enough, recharge follows again.

So tired.

He beeps softly in distress, touching the slack faceplates for a moment before he bestirs himself- carefully hoisting up the black-and-white mech against his chest. This berth is not the Masters, and as comfortable as it is to him… he should make sure the Master rests in his own.

And besides, it’s not like he weighs much. He’s lifted heavier loads of slag crystal and metal.

A faint set of creels and beeps follow him as he chuckles to himself, lowering his Master onto his own berth- making sure that the proper lines are installed for recharge. Something in his spark twinges as the mech turns to burrow into the berth, a servo hovering to touch before withdrawing.

He’s already took enough liberties as is, and Master does not like touch he doesn’t intiate first.

Still…

He chirrs softly to himself as he eases out of the room, shutting the door behind him before beeping in exultation.

Master __kept__  him!

Master __wants__  him!

He chirrs to himself again as he begins the List again, once more preparing for the morning and the day. Master may not be at work, but he knows the other likes his routine as well and he will not give him another reason to doubt him ever again.

Master wants him, and he wants to keep it that way.

And so, routine continues.

 

* * *

 

“You’re gonna get it off of me, right?”

The tone is somewhat panicked, inter-spaced by a vicious snarl- and squealing of metal as something leaps to try to get to the cornered seeker.

He exhales with irritation, looking up from the datapad he’d been perusing. It’s not the first time he’s had to deal with Skywarp baiting unsuspecting victims, but it’s another thing when his intended victim just happens to have quicker reflexes than he does.

“If you’d quit antagonizing him,” he drawls, leaning back in his seat.

The purple and black mech snorts as he attempts to get down from the cabinet, optics widening as the shorter creature leaps back at him- leaving furrows on the metal.

“I’m not antagonizing him! All I did was come in here to see you,” he squawks scrabbling back.

He snorts softly at that, chirring softly at the creature with a snap of his fingers. They’ve been working on training for the last few orns, and he’s realized that the other is very treat/food oriented. Punishment only works to further make the other’s attitude worse.

He’s rewarded with an immediate withdrawal and retreat on all fours, the lean figure quickly finding it’s way back to his knees joints. The rounded helm nuzzles against his thigh-strut, ovoid optics narrowing at Skywarp as he comes down.

The other one-third of the Royal Trine eyes those needle-sharp dentae as Starscream’s pet snarls, keeping well away.

“Why do you even still have that thing, anyway?” He drawls, flopping himself into a chair across from the other.

He glances down at the rounded helm, with large optics and narrow features. His servo brushes over the plating gently, offering a treat in the palm of his other palm. A deft glossa flicks it into the dangerous maw before nuzzling against the servo for another. 

“It fascinates me,” he ruminates, “And for the most part, I can wager on his responses to be honest on most things. I can’t very well just throw him out. They’d put him down.”

Skywarp grunts at that, eyeing it before turning back to Starscream. 

“Maybe ya should,” he reasons, shrugging once. “Could turn out to be a liability.”

“Maybe,” he answers, servo still stroking- brushing over the brand near the base of the spinestrut. “Or maybe there’s reasons yet. Either way, we’re still continuing our training- and I’ll have him perfectly obedient yet.”

He glances over at Skywarp, who merely shakes his helm and says nothing more. The trinebond is open between them- with Thundercracker’s silent presence currently in Praxus on a diplomatic mission to the Lord High Marshall. Silence reigns for a long moment, save for the occasional clicking of his digits against the keys of his keyboard and the soft ventilation of the pet at his pedes.

Most of his research recently has been towards a string of disappearances within the ranks of the higher echelon of noble culture. There’s been several vanishings within the older families of Iacon, two in Praxus and one in Vos here. While he is no enforcer, he knows his processor is uniquely suited to piecing together answers from almost no data. 

And besides, he has his own mystery to figure out.

He starts slowly as the glossa of his pet flicks at his palm again- asking for another treat. Rather than hit the creature, which was his first instinctive reaction after being startled- he pauses, looking him over thoughtfully. Wide optics peer back up at him, the interlocking focusing rings widening and narrowing as they take in his facial features. A bright flare from one of the lights overhead makes it flinch, the frame hunching against the shadow at his seat.

He frowns at that, making a mental note to dim the room- before offering a treat.

The pet may not be the gift he expected to get, but it’s turning out to be surprisingly loyal and vicious, both of which is incredibility useful at the moment. However, he doesn’t know how well it’s going to go if he has to bring it with him when he goes to meet Shockwave later.

Could be worse, he supposes.

It could have been like __Skywarp__ , instead.

He snorts to himself again, a faint smile forming as the space underneath his seat fills with the soft sound of an engine purring.


	8. Help I'm alive

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which things are lost, and Prowl has another mystery on his hands.

_I tremble_  
_They're gonna eat me alive_  
_If I stumble_  
_They're gonna eat me alive_

* * *

 

Those sounds are _fascinating._

He tilts his helm as he listens to the monochrome mech at his desk, going over lines and lines of indecipherable squiggles on the screen. His Master is in the habit of talking to himself when he’s around, and he doesn’t mind. He simply scoots here and there, picking up absent detritus of the other’s work and making sure that fuel is promptly brought.

He’s already figured out his Master is rather bad at taking care of himself.

Empty glasses and plates are taken away, and quickly replaced and replenished. He bustles here and there, though making sure to stay well away from windows and opens paces- preferring the dark, enclosed world of rooms and hallways.

And of course, the office.

“Drone.”

His plating ripples happily along his spinestrut and sides as his given designation from his Master is uttered, and turns to face him- single optic brightening. His vocalizer cannot make the same dulcet tones that his Master can, but he tries with a single, soft _blat_.

 _Dulcet_ , he likes that word. It feels velvety, soft… and _warm_.

Those light blue optics narrow as the observe him, and his plating ripples under the scrutiny. Rather, he is pleased. Scrutiny means thought, thought means tasks- and tasks means that he’s going to _stay_.

“Shockwave has given me some interesting information,” the smaller mech begins- ivory servos coming to rest on the illuminated holographic keypad in front of his screen. “And I’m not entirely sure what to make of it.”

His helm tilts to one side, a questioning _bleep_ escaping before he can stop his vocalizer.

The scrutiny, however, sharpens- instead of relaxing.

“…I’m not a mech given to flights of imagination, or fancy. I deal in facts, thorough and logical,” the thin lips pull into a faint frown before he continues. “But the facts in front of me are beginning to make me wish I could simply put this to some sort of lucid hallucination.”

Door panels quiver slightly with some unidentifiable emotion before stilling, and the chevron dips as the frame expands and contracts in a sigh.

“Ratchet was the victim of what we thought was an isolated event. We just found another victim, deactivated- this time.”

The blue optics that had cut away to dim briefly suddenly flare back- turning their brightness back to him.

“I’m not certain why I’m telling you this. Maybe that it’s just easier to talk it out. However, the victim is-was a fri-..acquaintance of mine. Another enforcer, from Polyhex. I think you would have liked him, drone.”

He watches the Praxian grimace, another deep sigh escaping.

“I can’t keep calling you drone… My own co-workers call –me- that. We’ll figure out something to call you later- for now, go get yourself cleaned up. We have a trip to take.”

His optic lingers on the lines of the other’s frame for a moment longer, watching the droop and the faint sag. Against something screaming warnings in his helm to not touch, he reaches over and places a light bladed servo on the other’s armstrut before skittering off to do as asked. He has much to do, and the transport will be here soon if he knows his Master.

He’s so intent in his tasks that he misses the look of consideration shot his way.

 

* * *

 

 

The sight is _not_ pretty.

Then again, crime-scenes are rarely neat on any given orn.

The jumble of armor is horrifying, but the contorted and twisted frame underneath is even more so. It’s so mangled that he can barely make out identifying features… but they are there. The nick just underneath the right sensor horn from sparring, the retractable dewclaws that been kept hidden all these vorns are visible underneath servotips. The sharp dentae that most Polyhexians file after their introduction into “polite” society are evident in a painful grimace. Even the faint dent to the chestplate from the other’s “hit-and-run” accident just two weeks prior. Most mecha would have gotten it taken care of by now.

Jazz always was an aberration.

The monochromatic armor, with its unmistakable red and blue piping is dulled grey now- but crusted energon around hinges and insertion points hint at exactly how the armor was removed. This was not a gentle death.

This wasn’t murder.

This was torture.

And it’s a message.

He’ll need to meet his contact soon, pass on information to certain rings- and to let Shockwave that there’s been another murder, and another one of their ring that’s been struck down. Jazz had been pivotal in certain hack-points, in finding Ratchet and exposing some of those responsible. It’s easy to pin that down as a reason.

There’s a niggling feeling in the back of his processor that _isn’t_ his tac-net telling him different. Jazz would have called it in his intuition. He calls it nothing more than useless data extrapolating into even more useless leads. However, this one time- he’ll follow it and see where it leads.

The other enforcer working the scene shoots him a sympathetic look, no doubt conferring the idea to his crèche that they were lovers. It’s not uncommon to find bonded and non-bonded partners sporting a similar paint scheme. Theirs, however, was only by an accident of Primus.

 They were only ever friends, if he allows himself to admit that much.

Good friends, Jazz being one of the few who never took his attitude to spark and always had a kind word to say about him…even if it was an occasional joking complaint. He realizes in that moment, just how much he’s going to miss the other mech. There might have been romantic aspirations at some point, but…they were too different and wouldn’t have worked out.

And besides, Jazz had started seeing another intelligence officer out of Kaon- and had been gushing (annoyingly so) to Prowl about said mech.

Despite the other mech’s gregarious attitude, he’d _not_ been _promiscuous_ and Prowl had shot _that_ rumor down _viciously_.

“Captain, sir?”

His door panels hike up, helm tilting slightly as he turns from the ruins of a life in front of him to the younger deputy.

“Yes?”

“Forensics found traces of a nitra-accelerant in his system. It seems that with his peculiar cyberology and frame type, it worked as a depressant rather than a stimulant.”

“Meaning, he was drugged before this happened.”

It also means, that working in the special division of the Enforcers as one of their undercover agents- he had specialized filtration systems that should have taken care of this. It means that the amount put in his systems might have either knocked him out.

Or killed him outright.

“Find out whether or not these wounds were inflicted pre or post mortem. I want to know how he died, when he died and how long it took. When you find this out, get the report back to me. I need to get back to my office and start drafting up search analysis documentation.”

And pull Hightower off his vacation, the fragger.

“Drone! To me.”

The taller mechanoid skitters closer from where it had been lingering on the sidelines. He breathes easier with its steadying field and presence. He’s got to draft another message, this one to Shockwave- and another one to Jazz’s ardent admirer in Kaon.

That’s a conversation he’s not looking forward to.

He enters the waiting transport, making sure the drone enters safely and settles next to him. It’s field levels his out as they take off, his optics narrowing at the first splats of acid rain on the windows. The field team is efficient, and they’ll have the scene protected and cleaned up in no time.

Still… he’s trying to wrap his processor around what would have gotten the other mech killed. Jazz may have been a bit of a show-off, but that was only his outward persona. Professionally, he was as clinical and as precise as a physician when it came to his extractions and jobs. He would have not had this kind of a mistake.

Which can only mean this was premeditated and then executed.

_‘Jazz, what did you discover.’_

His only answer is the sound of the rain hitting harder on the thickened plasmasheet windows as they head back to Headquarters, his frame syncing in time with pulse and breath with the drone at his side.

 

 


	9. Even while we sleep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An interlude: in which Skywarp comes to a decision, and Starscream to a realization.

_Welcome to your life_  
_There's no turning back_  
_Even while we sleep_  
_We will find you_

* * *

 

This is only going to end in tears.

Or a rather large transmission stain on the mech’s berth.

Either way, he finds himself leaning in the doorway- staring at the scene that’s going to unfold in front of him. An early riser, surprisingly- it’s only been solidified even more lightly with the advent of his new “pet.” Feeding, cleaning – and spending time with it (him, as he’s somewhat ascertained it’s mostly _mech_ ) has taken up a majority of his free time.

Oddly enough, he doesn’t find himself stressed over this. It’s becoming routine, calming even. He’s learned that the creature has his own quirks, bits of personality. He has a sense of humor, curiosity and even rudimentary affection.

Waking up with the warm frame next to his in a protective curl does things to his spark _he’d rather not mention_.

Amusingly enough, the pet (whom has been termed Fragger by Skywarp, but only when he thinks Starscream isn’t around) perfectly enjoys Thundercracker’s company. He can often be found in the bigger mech’s lap when not under his own chair. Apparently, seeker thrashing claws are _amazing_ for scritches.

Unless you’re _Skywarp_.

He hasn’t the foggiest idea why the Pet has an issue with his most laid-back of trinemates, only that any time the black-and purple flier gets near him ends up with Skywarp clinging to something tall and out of the reach of those sharp dewclaws.

Occasionally, even warping away.

At any rate, for the last two joors- his pet has been staring over the edge of the berth at the sleeping seeker somnambulant on its surface. The creature has not blinked, unmoving save for the faint shuffle of plating as it ventilates. He thinks he can ALMOST see a smirk starting to twitch the edges of that mouth up- but he knows it’s only wishful thinking and personification that makes it seem so.

 Still…it doesn’t stop him from actively recording, or stopping his pet from what he intends.

Especially as Skywarp, either from the feeling of scrutiny, or his own faulty internal chronometer begins to _finally_ rouse with incomprehensible muttering and shifting.

“Mnghgh…”

He begins a mental count down, flicking optics from pet to mech.

“Hnnnghhghh…waaaa?”

_‘3..2..annnd 1.’_

He’s rewarded with an unholy screech as Skywarp’s sense of self-preservation finally picks itself up from the drunken stupor it had been laying in for the past half orn and shake itself vigorously to send the mech’s sparkrate skyrocketing and systems working in over-drive to get him away from the source of fright.

What he doesn’t expect is the sudden _VOOOP_ of the outlier’s warpcore to suddenly come online… and transport it’s occupant to parts unknown. He shutters his optics open and closed, one servo absently waving the remnants of cluttered reality in the air.

“…Well now,” he drawls in his casual rasp, “That was a bit dramatic, don’t you think?”

The Pet glances up at that, those ovid, golden optics with their unusually bright focusing irises focusing on his faceplates. He finds it strangely endearing, the way he shows so much emotion easily. The lean frame comes slinking over to his- on all fours, for the most part. However, he’s gotten him to come on two pedes on occasion. He remains in a crouch with a self-satisfied purl to his engine as those optics slit, turning to stare back at the bed as he awaits his prey.

…Which is precisely when Skywarp decides to show back up, smelling suspiciously of Kaonian air pollution and mid-rant.

“-THE FRAG WOULD YOU LET HIM DO THAT FOR, STAR,” the normally jovial seeker’s faceplates is twisted into an indignant mask, wings flared up and high in a defensive threat display. “THAT THING IS DANGEROUS AND YOU LET IT IN HERE AND…”

He cuts the rant as the other’s vents rattle with an inhalation in order to continue.

“You deserved it,” he drawls, a cutting tone scything through the other seeker’s vitriol. “Don’t act innocent, Skywarp. I’ve seen you being an obnoxious pair of twit-wings towards him. Besides, he can sense fear- and it’s not HIS fault that you can’t seem to control yourself.”

“…I can’t believe your defending that freakish anomaly, Star.”

“…We’re still friends, aren’t we?”

The black plating deflates a little, a woebegone look coming across Skywarp’s features as he stares at his trineleader.

“Oh come on, that’s a low-blow, Star.”

He reaches down to touch the rounded helm, with its scarring and divots. He’s only recently managed to get his hearing back online, and is amazed at the variety of sounds he can pick up. He’s awoken to dead petro-rats and glitch mice in his berth more times than he cares to think about. He’s given him puzzle treats, watching him solve them with disturbing intelligence.

“…I know, ‘Warp.” He rasps quietly, one thumb brushing over those divots on either side of his helm. “I won’t apologize, but I won’t do it again if you get your act together and at least try to learn to get used to him. I’m not giving him up.”

“I don’t understand why,” the other half-whines, but gives up on his tirade as he sinks tiredly onto his berth.

This has the result of making the Pet come nearer, nasal ridge wrinkling as he scents the air. He watches as Skywarp goes stock still as the smaller mech approaches- freezing as if the mechanoid was going to suddenly jump on him and tear his throat cabling out.

 _Which_ , he supposes- _isn’t exactly out of the equation_.

Instead, it seems as if the Pet is curious about Skywarp, and delicately touches olfactory receptors to the other’s plating. One black-proformed servo touches lightly with those sharp claws (he couldn’t bear to file them down again, and besides- the aluminum poles outside in his garden work much better for keeping him occupied) before he suddenly decides to leap into black-and-purple seeker’s lap.

“Star… what’s he doin’?”

He tilts his helm, pushing away from the doorway and eases in to sit beside him.

“I’m not entirely certain. He’s already friendly with Thundercracker,” he gives the other seeker a wry look worthy of their aforementioned blue partner. “Maybe you’re finally getting a proper introduction.”

And indeed, his Pet doesn’t look inclined to tear out cabling, but instead makes itself into a tight ball before settling fully on the warmth of the bigger seeker’s lap. There’s a faintly warbly whine emanating from it… and from what he can teek from its somewhat rudimentary field, there’s…

_Sadness._

He’s _upset._

He will _never, ever_ admit the sudden clawing that does to his spark. One hand reaches up of its on accord, coming to rest on the curled spinestrut of the creature. His face twists as an anguished cry escapes it’s mangled vocalize (something he _still_ hasn’t figured out yet how to fix). Even Skywarp flinches at that, one servo coming up to gingerly rest on the rounded helm.

“…Eesh… what’s that all about?”

“I…don’t know, ‘Warp.” He frowns as he continues to stroke gently down the scarred protoform. The uniform grey has finally darkened into a rather interesting matte black, almost the color of space without stars. That feeble field brushes against their’s, teeking of _sadness/anxiety/hurt._

It’s enough to make Skywarp melt a little, an expression of sympathy escaping. For all of his (sometimes) cruel tricks, Skywarp’s spark is as soft as mercury at room temperature.

“…Hey, hey lil mech. S’okay,” he croons, the outlier’s voice a little deeper and smoother than his own. “We gotcha. Star and I gotcha. Promise.”

He brushes his trinemate’s arm in gratitude, a pulse of affection boomeranging between the two of them over the bond. Skywarp’s  servo continues to stroke that helm, watching the agonized expression begin to ease out. The wide, gold optics fixate on his face- watching his every move.

After what seems like joors, he eventually begins to lean into it.

An odd sort of glee spreads across Skywarp’s faceplates like the sun coming over the horizon. He can literally watch his trinemate brighten at this acceptance, the pets becoming more and more like rubbing- until the creature is fully stretched across both their laps tank-up.

It’s the most stupidly adorable thing he’s ever seen, and he hates ( _loves_ ) it.

“…Didja ever figure out a designation for him,” Skywarp murmurs, inbetween scratching at the flattened chest protoform and smoothing out over the sleek abdominal micro-plating.

“I’m still working on that, but I imagine I’ll figure something fitting. Right now, I simply call him Pet. It’s more about the tone than name.”

“Yeah, but you can’t keep calling him just ‘pet’,” the other murmurs, using both hands now to scritch along seams and grinning delightedly at the full-frame stretch and wriggle.  “No we can’t, can we?”

He snorts at that, giving his partner a light thwap with his right wing.

“Weren’t you afraid of him not more than half a joor ago?” he drawls, a hand coming to rest absently on the creature’s helm, one slim servo stroking the bridge of its nasal ridge. Pure bliss radiates out now, the frame beginning to sag in relaxation and contentment. .

“Aw, shut it,” Skywarp grins as the Pet gives him a questioning chirr, settling to scritch along scarring on the right lateral side. “I was, but now I’m not- so it’s different.”

He’s known this mech for over six million quartexes, but nothing is going to ever change the fact that he will never make sense.

At all.

He shakes his helm, dropping the subject as he leans back, resting on one servo. His life is complicated, but even for him there are small pleasures. His trinemates, flying- and now the Pet.

What an odd thing it is, he muses, to be content.

“So…uh, did Shockwave ever get back with you on what he wanted,” Skywarp half glances over at him, still preoccupied with petting his newest conquest.

“…He did,” He exhales, wings sagging in a bit of sorrow of his own. “They’re going to try another re-route on the butchery that was done on Ratchet- and he wants me down there in case the coding goes south.”

Skywarp winces at that, shifting to lean a little against his trine-leader. He’s known the medic since he was newly out of his crèche. Seeing him in the state he’s in, with the scars and the welds… and knowing what’s happened- it makes him simultaneously want to tear something apart and scream.

“…You gonna?” His voice goes small, worry shooting across that bond. The last time Starscream tried to attempt something like this did not end well, for him or Ratchet.

“…How can I not,” he replies tiredly. “If I don’t, then he stays in that hell they’ve created. If I do, then at least there’s the chance it might work. “

“And there’s the chance it might drive you both over that final ledge. Jus’… jus’ promise me you’ll be careful, okay?”

Worried optics stare at him from Skywarp’s rugged features, and he can’t help himself. A faint smile escapes and he leans his helm against the other’s- wings sagging as he soaks in the other’s concern and worry for his well-being. He knows Skywarp cares, but _feeling_ it is entirely different. He can’t promise the other that it will go perfectly, but he can promise that he will do his best.

“I will do what I can, Skywarp- that’s all I can give you.”

He turns his helm slightly, still resting it against Skywarp’s, listening to the hum of the other’s turbines, the soft rumble of his engine and the quiet purring of the creature across both of them. His family is a bit odd, he thinks- but it is _his_.

And that's all that matters. 

**Author's Note:**

> Oh no, I wrote a thing! Larry, this is your fault.


End file.
